Cure for the Common Boredom
by FreyaWazHere
Summary: Sherlock is bored again, and needs John to help find a cure. Fluff.


"Sherlock? Sherlock! I wouldn't mind some help with the groceries!" John, waiting at the bottom of the stairs, hoped he sounded angry enough to rouse the detective from the stasis he left him in an hour and a half ago. Of course, by now he'd learned to not expect answers, or even help really, and muttering about thankless tasks, the young doctor clambered up the stairs.

As he thought, his flat mate hadn't budged a muscle since he left, continuing to lie there on the sofa as though dead (or perhaps, severely drugged). "Hello Sherlock." The corner of Watson's lip drooped in subtle annoyance, at least wanting a greeting. A small sigh dropped from him, his shoulders along with it, as he precariously stacked the bags on every inch of free counter space.

Casting a side long glance at the fridge, he pondered the reason why he continued to buy milk. John grimaced, deciding nothing in there could be worse than when he'd found the head in there, and he quickly opened the door. Fortune would have it, that nothing new was in there.

To distract himself from the silence, he hummed tunelessly, flicking his eyes over to the still man with amusement. After all this time, and so many new cases, the one stable thing in John's life, was Sherlock.

"I'm bored John." The dry, unused voice of his flat mate did nothing to stir Watson from his task. "I'm sorry to hear that." He responded, back turned to the sitting room-library-think space. "It's a disease to me you know."

Watson had to laugh at that. "I think lots of people suffer from that illness thenMaybe you should come and name all the ingredients in this can of Tomato soup." Having snorted as he teased his friend, he immediately regretted it as Sherlock rattled off the ingredients. "Tomato: Solanum lycopersicum…Water: H2O, High Fructose corn syrup: HFCS 42….Onion powder….Citric Acid… Ascorbic Acid... I'm still bored John!"

The doctor, wrinkling his nose in annoyance, heard the creak of floor and couch when the world's only consulting detective left his couch comfort to join him in the kitchen.

"Ask me something. Trivia." Naturally, Sherlock had taken a seat instead of helping with the remaining groceries.

Without looking up he asked. "What year was the first prime minister elected?"

"1721… Or 1840 if you want when It actually meant something." Holmes replied promptly.

"In India?"

"1947, history is dull. Give me something else."

Watson rolled his eyes. "What is the scientific name for an Oak-"

Sherlock let out an overly dramatic sigh. "Quercus alba, though it depends what kind of Oak we are talking about, I assume the most common kind you know."

Having stopped, and now currently resisting the urge to kick something, John turned on Holmes, who remained as impassive as ever. About to spit a retort he was interrupted. "Please John, I can hear my brain cells committing suicide like lemmings, although yes I know, lemmings don't actually do that. It's a figure of speech and a pun at the same time if you can't tell. You don't even have to know the answer. And now-" He held a pale digit up to cut off Watson yet again. "Don't ask that question."

"What question?" Now this was just plain infuriating, how could Sherlock know what he was going to ask?

"Of course you're wondering how I knew." The man's blatant tone served as a bigger irritant. "It's elementary John. As you turned around, filled unmistakably with annoyance, you glanced briefly at the paper, and you instantly had a thought. While I read the paper I avoid the sports section. You aren't a soccer or rugby fan; no as a doctor you're much more refined. You like tennis. Therefore, I deduce that your question was going to be one out of spite, and about tennis, which was probably 'what was the score of yesterday's women's doubles?', However I think you'd better check the paper because its Sunday, and unless its tournament season, which it is not, no one plays on Sundays in October." He grinned, a gesture both satisfied and playful, a gesture reserved for when he teased John.

"Fine." There was no way he'd ever admit Sherlock was right. Once again, his annoyance was ignored, at least visibly, by the detective, and he frowned as he thought deeply, the corners of his mouth twitching with humor as he spoke. "What is the common name for Messier 16?" Just as he'd hoped, Sherlock was not immediate to answer. It was with smug satisfaction, that John watched the detective's brow sink into a position of deep thought. After a minute he finally spoke, the delight in his eyes akin to a child receiving a particularly colorful piece of candy. "The Eagle Nebula…"

"You got it." Shaking his head John's shoulders slumped in satisfied defeat. His smile etched on his tired face filled the creased corners of his eyes and mouth. "Been studying astronomy huh?" The detective leaned back in his chair, the wooden legs lifting off the floor. "I couldn't let you hold that above me anymore." The legs set down lightly. "I still am a bit bored…." He flicked his eyes over to John, who simply shook his head fondly and pulled out the ingredients for his dinner. "Are you going to eat tonight Sherlock?" When Watson turned back around, he felt suddenly flustered as the detective gazed at him that way, bold, thoughtful and piercing. "Sherlock… dinner?"

Sherlock ignored him, taking his two pointer fingers from his lips. "Come here John."

And he obeyed, curious yes, but not suspicious or afraid. Sherlock rose to meet him, hands lifting to settle on John's neck, softly, tenderly even, stroking his jawline. Watson flushed, dropping his gaze. His mouth moved, but he didn't say anything, didn't back away. It was then that Sherlock did something he never did; he apologized. John didn't even process it, the strange words coming from his friend, his mentor, his partner, and could only react the one way that made sense when Sherlock laid his lips on John's: kiss back.

They weren't together for very long, maybe only a few seconds. But those few moments, Sherlock's arms pulling them close together, his simple, almost awkward movements that put so much energy into the one simple gesture that John was filled with a beautifully fond warmth. Through the heat of his own cheeks, he could feel Sherlock's blush; naïve, humble, sweet.

Once they broke, both still pink in the cheek, the taller man kissed the top of John's head. "I think I've found my cure, doctor… when I'm with you I'm no longer bored."


End file.
